Page 3 of The Christmas Arrangement
He sighs deeply and speaks to me in a voice that I imagine a disappointed father would use. I don’t know firsthand, having grown up with no father, disappointed or otherwise. But the heavy tone makes me think of a dad imparting wisdom and a life lesson to a wayward son.
“Well, Dash, you went on ‘Mornings with Molly’ and unleashed a tirade about?—”
“Your ass,” Luna supplies.
“Remember that?”
“Of course I remember,” I sputter. “That’s why I’m doing this. For my redemption arc.”
This whole mess is the height of irony, which itself is pretty ironic. The reason I filmed An Inheritance of Irony in the first place was to revamp my reputation. After a solid decade as a child star on a series of forgettable sit-coms and one dramedy that will haunt me forever, like an undead bloodsucker, I wanted to shake off the mantle of Vlad, the vampire heartthrob, and sink my metaphorical fangs into a meatier roles.
An Inheritance of Irony, a serious work of cinema, was supposed to make the public forget about my teenage stunts, ill-advised shenanigans, and thoughtless social media posts. And I’m not being vain when I say I did my best work ever as Cody, the orphaned ranch hand forced to relocate to Philadelphia, where he takes a job caring for a dying art forger. Critics called my portrayal “thoughtful, complex, and layered” and predicted I’d end up with a glittery statuette. I even moved from Los Angeles to New York and had my agent spread the word that I was interested in doing stage work.
But when I hit the PR circuit, all anybody wanted to talk about was my butt.
So, yes, fine, I didn’t handle it with a lot of grace when Molly asked how I felt about the nude scenes with a thick layer of innuendo. It didn’t help that my naked posterior was plastered on the screen behind the couch while the opening bars of a striptease song blared.
An Inheritance of Irony, far from changing my image to one of a respected thespian, seemed to cement my reputation as an empty-headed himbo. Like I said, ironic.
“A drunken tirade about your ass,” Brody clarifies.
“I wasn’t drunk,” I say weakly.
My manager and makeup artist exchange amused glances through my phone.
He snorts. “Did you forget we were in the green room with you?”
“Nobody gets drunk on a Bloody Mary.”
“Maybe not. But how about seven Bloody Marys?” Luna retorts.
“I hadn’t had breakfast,” I mumble. Then the burn of humiliation eases as righteous anger takes over. “Lia knew all this when she agreed. She has no right to back out now.”
“She wouldn’t have. But then you went clubbing in Brooklyn last night.”
“So?”
He exhales, flaring his nostrils. “So, when you stumbled out of one of the many nightclubs you visited, the photographer for Tinseltown Tattler called you Bubble Booty.“
I squint, as I try and fail to remember. Finally, I shake my head, lost.
He wastes no time filling me in. “In response, you turned around, dropped your jeans, and bared the booty in question right there in the middle of the sidewalk. I can’t believe you don’t remember mooning the press.”
I did what? My cheeks flame.
“How many Bloody Marys did you have last night?” Luna snickers.
I ignore her and cover my embarrassment by turning on Brody. “This is your job to fix it. Fix it.”
“I can’t fix it, Dash. Your naked butt is all over the internet now. Lia’s not coming. Her creative team is telling her it’s a bad idea. Frankly, they’re right. She shouldn’t tie herself to you. That’s what I’d tell her if she were my client.”
His disapproval stings. A lot. He’s been my manager since I was twelve. He’s like an uncle to me, but that doesn’t change the facts: he works for me. “Well, she’s not your client. I am.”
He’s silent for a long moment.
“And as your manager, I’m telling you you’re screwed.”
The words leave me reeling like a right hook to the jaw. Five . Five of clawing my way up the greased pole of respectability. Five of fighting to be taken seriously. And finally, right as I reach the top, I slide right back into the pit of disposable, interchangeable pretty boys where I started.